


reach out your hands toward the light

by wizardslexicon



Category: One Piece
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1985916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizardslexicon/pseuds/wizardslexicon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How a boy grew into a dragon, and came to love a girl with the sun on her back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reach out your hands toward the light

Sabo is twelve when he learns that fingers are for more than holding things and picking his nose.

“Sabo,” says Dragon, in that slow, rumbling voice. The Revolutionary always sounds like a snake who swallowed a cigarette and hissed out each word with a drop of poison inside. “You cling to your pipe-staff without need. It is your talons that will lead you to victory.”

“But, sir—” begins the youth, but Dragon’s hand extends, and Sabo knows there is no use arguing. He hands over the staff, and Dragon looks it over with a critical eye.

“Coat your hands,” says Dragon. Sabo can do it easily now, even though it took him a year to figure out how to turn the purging fury in his heart into armor over his body, and his fingers, while they cannot yet take on the pure black hue of the Armament, are protected. “Hold them out.” Sabo extends his arms, shaking. Dragon is tall and intense and just a little scary. He lifts up the pipe, and cracks it down on Sabo’s outstretched hands.

Once, twice, thrice. Sabo’s Armament is strong for his age, but not in general. Each blow with the pipe can’t break his fingers (no, because he’s broken them himself, microfractures by striking sand and glass and wood and steel, and even outside the Armament his hands alone could kill a man) but God, do they hurt.

Fifteen blows later, Sabo’s knuckles are red, his eyes are streaming, but his hands are whole. Dragon hands back the pipe.

“When a member of the Army outranking you approaches you to speak, you must say this before you engage them in conversation, presenting both pipe and fingers: ‘These are my talons; this is my staff. One is for fighting, one is for laughs.’ Repeat it back to me.” Sabo takes the cool metal (Dragon’s hands were cold as an icebox) in his hot hands.

“These are my talons; this is my staff. One is for fighting, one is for laughs.” He tries very hard not to cry, and Dragon does not notice.

“Good. Now, the Dragon’s Breath strike, twenty repetitions.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

Sabo is fourteen when Dragon asks him if he has any friends among the army.

“These are my talons; this is my staff. One is for fighting, one is for laughs.”

“Have done with that, Sabo, and answer the question!” This is as close Dragon has ever gotten to laughing in his presence. He is smiling, though, and for a moment his face reminds Sabo of Luffy, if he were aged by power and time. He files away this resemblance for future perusal.

“No, sir. There are sparring partners, but they are older, more experienced, not inclined to talk after drubbing me on the mat. I spend my leisure time reading and studying, sir.” Dragon harrumphs, and Sabo nearly expects smoke to come from one of his nostrils.

“Hack.” The Fishman appears at Dragon’s side as if by teleportation, but Kuma is off with the Marines, so that cannot be. “You said there was a child in Paradise who had contact with the Sun Pirates?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ready a vessel, Hack. We are setting sail for the whelp’s location. Sabo, I expect you to be prepared for this voyage in the space of one hour. am I understood?” Sabo is hardly listening through his excitement, but manages a reply.

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” He scuttles backward and sprints to his room, packing in a frenzy, and although he smothers disappointment at the vessel they will set sail in (the _Snow Black_ is fast, but it is small and not particularly impressive), he comes aboard with delight.

It’s been two years since he was on the Grand Line, and its terrors and marvels shock him anew. Squid big enough to swallow the _Snow Black_ whole, weather less predictable than Dragon’s next move in a chess game, the loud vice of the towns they make land on (Dragon never goes dockside, because with his tattoo he’s easily recognized. Sabo and the soldiers are pretty incognito, and there he learns poker, and how much he should to pay for beer and a night’s warmth with a prostitute).

Their destination is almost a disappointment. Nothing special, just an island with craggy rocks surrounding most of it, and fields. Good farmland. The inhabitants live a simple life. The _Snow Black_ lowers anchor on the back side of the island, able to avoid detection by dint of its small size, and they face the problem of the cliffs.

Hack jumps into the sea and rockets up out of it on a wave. Dragon simply leaps. Sabo is instructed to dive into the ocean, then climb up the rocks. The salt water is bitter, and bitterly cold, and Sabo is glad he removed all but his shirt and trousers. His fingers, coated in the Armament, find faults in the stone and smash them into handholds, and he makes his way up exhausted, cold, and proud of his achievement. Dragon and Hack weren’t even looking; they are watching the field below them.

A girl, perhaps a hair more than Sabo’s age, is practicing. She is wearing shorts, but no shoes, no shirt, and no band covering her breasts. At her age, it’s inappropriate, and Sabo flushes, even as he thinks to himself that it wouldn’t be a problem if they weren’t spying on her. Of more interest to his mind (and Sabo is very glad the cold water is everywhere on him, else his body would betray him) are her movements.

Her feet are planted wide, and her muscles ripple in a way Sabo didn’t know human ones could. Her kicks are smooth and fluid, the falls she makes herself take are perfect. But she curses them all.

“Damnation!” they hear, over and over. “Mr. Jinbe could have done that better. A hundred more!” Over and over, she strikes the air, and Sabo could swear it was shaking. That is when Dragon stands up, jumps down, lands in the field, and begins to approach her. Hack and Sabo exchange looks of exasperation (when, gods, will Dragon learn to keep others in the loop?) and follow.

Sabo expects the girl to scream and cover herself. Instead, she picks up a shirt and fixes them all with a steely gaze.

“Are you with the Government? I understand it’s your way to barge in unwanted.” Dragon smiles, his hood still up.

“We could not be further from the World Government, Koala. In fact, I have devoted my life to the destruction of that oppressive machine.” He lowers his hood, and the girl (Koala, Sabo’s mind sighs the name) gives him a long stare.

“The Revolutionary, Dragon.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“I could scream, you know. The villagers know I’m the only one who comes out here.” She crosses her arms, and Sabo notes the muscle there. She’s more built than he is, with his predatory leanness and dragon claws.

“You could scream,” says Hack. “But then you would never have a chance to study Fishman Karate from a Fishman, and you would wonder your whole life what would have happened if you did.”

“Did you know Jinbe?” she asks, quietly.

“He is a dear friend,” replies Hack, “even if he has sullied his name by association with Government dogs.” Koala seems to consider this.

“What do you want from me?”

“On the contrary, Miss Koala,” says Dragon. “We are not taking from you. We are offering. Come with us, and we will show you the path to revolution.” She chews her lip.

“Do I have time to think about it?” Dragon shakes his head, looking for all the world like a statue brought to life.

“The same wind never blows twice. This is your only offer. No one will believe you if you claim to have rejected an offer of recruitment from the Revolutionary himself.” Koala nods.

“If you will teach me, I will learn.” In her face, Sabo sees the same determination he’d felt when he first joined the organization. Bitterness, hatred...and hope. They escort her back to the ship and set sail before nightfall, before the search parties come and find the shoes the revolutionaries left on the cliff for them to find.

“Bunk with Sabo,” says Dragon, later on the deck. Koala gives Sabo a skeptical look, and even with his back turned to them, Dragon seems to sense it. “He will not do anything untoward, because he enjoys the possession of his fingers.” That seems to satisfy her, and Sabo leads her to his room, with its bunk bed. She claims the bottom on principle, and they sit in silence by candlelight as Sabo fills in his journal.

“I was a slave,” she says into the soft light. Sabo doesn’t stop writing. “They burned a sun over the mark of my slavery.” Sabo doesn’t reply, just continues scritch-scratching until Koala blows out the candle and they sit in darkness, making soft sleeping noises in vain attempts to convince the other they aren’t paying attention.

“I was a noble,” says Sabo, finally. “I just wanted to be free.” Koala shifts.

“Got a name, noble?”

“Sabo.”

They don’t exchange words again until they reach Baltigo.

 

Sabo is sixteen when he realizes Koala is his friend, not just his comrade.

She’s seventeen, then, but the age gap isn’t so large that they can’t form a fast friendship. Sabo wakes up and jumps off the top bunk, because the ladder is totally for sissies, then flicks Koala on the ear to wake her up and jumps back. Her first instinct upon being woken is a punch, but he hasn’t gotten hit with it in almost two years.

She rolls out of bed, and runs off to the closet to pick out their clothes while Sabo makes the beds up and replaces last night’s melted candle with a new one. They shower quickly, brush their teeth, comb their hair, and dress in nearly identical white button-ups, plain trousers, and boots. Any squeamishness they have with each other’s naked bodies is long gone.

They slam the door open, a sound familiar to all of Baltigo’s residents, and begin the daily run to the mess. They bowl over several of the revolutionaries in the hallway, upset several tables, frighten the carrier pigeons, and trip and roll in a ball of well-dressed revolutionary almost to the door of the mess, where they look back at the chaos they’ve caused, grin, and go to have morning fruit and oatmeal.

The usual routine, of course.

They have two mandatory periods of exercise every day: the morning spar, and the evening workout. They sprint to the spar as well, and even with all the destruction they cause, everyone smiles. There is a brightness to the antics of the young that Baltigo did not have two years ago.

Sabo is still jealous of Koala’s muscles. She’s _buff_ , with back muscles that make grown men cry, shoulders and thighs thick and powerful, calves and arms tapering off into bandaged feet and hands. Every time someone says muscular women aren’t attractive, Sabo thinks of Koala’s raw beauty and laughs: she could pop his head off with her glutes, and she’s _adorable_.

That’s why he realizes his stupidity when he’s taking a break to watch her and Hack trade blows, and he says, “That’s impressive, but what’s a fish to a dragon?”

Her fist is in his stomach so fast he could swear she was already going to hit him, and he barely avoids vomiting up peaches ‘n cream oatmeal when he flies into the hard glass around the dojo. As it is, he feels like a giant just gave him a full-body high five.

“Until your body doesn’t contain any water,” says Koala, “you can keep your mouth shut. Talk shit, get hit.” The next blow is a kick, and Sabo flicks his hand up and catches her ankle. Now that he’s expecting the blow, he’s Observing her, and he tightens his grip (her bones _grind_ ) and hurls her into the crack in the glass he made.

“Stands to reason that a fish wouldn’t have defenses against talons,” he says, even-keeled. Koala jumps to her feet, eyes narrowed, but the situation is defused by Hack, who is laughing so hard he’s on the ground.

They start sparring together the next day.

 

Sabo is nineteen when he and Koala decide to break the record for fastest run around the island.

Pouring sweat, matching each other step for step even as they determined to beat each other, they cross the finish line simultaneously, toss each other ice-chilled water bottles, and listen vaguely while the lower ranking revolutionaries gush about their athleticism. Mostly, though, her damn near black eyes lock onto his brown ones.

Sabo’s eyes move from the ponytail, to the neck, to the shoulders. When he looks at her chest, he can almost see the proud sun on the other side. Her stomach, not quite six-pack, but at least four, well padded and bared. Her thighs, covered partially by running shorts. Then his eyes flick up to hers guiltily just as hers do the same.

“Shit, Koala—”

“Sabo—”

They are in each other’s arms, kissing in a manner that could only be described as _furious_ , his hands on her hips, hers on his perpetually slim shoulders, and by the time they each see about how the other’s clothes come unfastened, the crowd is long gone.

 

Sabo is twenty when he loses a brother who thought he was dead.

He is on the ground, screaming, crying, that his equal, his brother, the A in S A B O, is gone, dead, murdered protecting the younger brother they’d once contemplated killing. No one wants to come near him: his hands have pulverized the tiles around him already, and what stone can’t stand no flesh could.

Koala slides her arms around his shoulders, all shhh, no darling, the pain burns, I know you feel it like he did, I know what you’ve lost and _it will get better_ , come on you assbaby, let’s go, that’s the ticket. Sabo lets her lead him to their room, and for the first time, she lets him into her bed, and curls around him, and whispers no baby, you’re gonna be alright, just sleep, just sleep into his ear until the shaking stops.

When he wakes from nightmares of magma on flame and burning rubber, she is there to give him food and water and the touch of a loved one.

When he screams and attacks every image of himself he sees (WHY WASN’T HE _THERE_ ), she picks the shards of glass from his hand and applies a poultice and tells him it wasn’t his fault.

When he attacks Dragon (your ** _son_** is my ** _brother_** and you almost LET HIM DIE!) Koala’s fist buries itself in his eye, drops him to the floor, and Sabo cries, begs Dragon for forgiveness, but Koala drags him off the the sparring room and doesn’t apologize for his behavior and fights him for three days straight until he can stand up on his own.

When he stands on top of Headquarters and wonders if the view is better on the way down, she tells him what he’s living for, and he steps down from the ledge.

 

Sabo is nearly twenty-one when the Light of the Revolution, Nico Robin, arrives at Baltigo.

He learns quickly that sparring a woman who can twist you into a pretzel without pausing in her fifteenth reread of her favorite light novel is an exercise in futility, and he learns histories more complete than any others in the world, sitting on the floor while she is in a chair, like children at storytime.

He learns about Luffy.

More than just the Luffy he’s known. A different Luffy, a Luffy forged in fire.

A Luffy who crushed Sir Crocodile in a desert country because the man had the nerve to harm one of his friends, who saved a woman waiting to die because her dreams were worth it.

A Luffy who declared war on the World Government to get back a woman called “Devil Child”.

A Luffy who took in the shadows of the fallen and laid waste to the largest ship in the world.

A Luffy who sacked Impel Down for his brother.

A Luffy whose greatness has not in the slightest affected his ability to inhale huge amounts of food and laugh with his chosen family. He could not be prouder of his only remaining brother.

Koala sees Robin off at Sabaody Archipelago, with both of their love, and all Sabo told her was “Good luck, and take care of Luffy.”

 

Sabo is twenty-two when he reunites with his brother in the New World, and it is then that he learns that fingers aren’t just for fighting.

They’re for holding what’s precious.

**Author's Note:**

> Parts of this fic were inspired by conversations with my friend Yulia!   
> She can be found at winged-leon.tumblr.com.


End file.
